


Piracy on the High Seas!

by S_EER (Fritiriel)



Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Altruism, Captivity, Chivalry, Dress Up, M/M, Manip possibly NSFW, Mutiny, Pirates, Ransom, Romance, Sea Battle, caribbean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-24
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:50:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fritiriel/pseuds/S_EER
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>…such stuff as dreams are made on…</p>
</div>
            </blockquote>





	Piracy on the High Seas!

**Author's Note:**

> This was a birthday gift for Hildi a while ago, but I’m sure she won’t mind sharing at last  
> 

‘Commando,’ says Sean, amusement clear in his voice. ‘You want me to go to a party dressed like that,’ he flicks a finger at the somewhat revealing pirate costume displayed on Elijah’s laptop, ‘and commando.’

‘Why not? It _is_ a fancy dress party, you know.’ The tone is all sweet reason—the grin, not so much.

‘Commando. You want me to go commando, out in public, wearing _tights—’_

‘They’re leggings, Sean,’ Elijah points out helpfully. 

Sean frowns at him. ‘In leggings, right. With you right there playing highwayman, in leather pants that look like you were poured into them, complete with frilly white shirt—pretty much see-through and, I have no doubt, negligently fastened for 'accidental' nipple effect. Could you just pause to consider the effect of you, in what you will be wearing, on me in _leggings_ —commando or not?’

‘Well, I could,’ Elijah grins and moves to slide the fingers of one hand, quite slowly and deliberately, up the inside of Sean’s thigh, ‘but I’d much rather _show_ than _tell…_ ’

Afterward in their bed, sated and content as ever, it’s not really a surprise when he falls headlong into dream…

#

‘What is it, Wilkes?’

‘Beggin’ your pardon, Cap’n. Mister Geddes cast off the _Aphrodite_ with the prisoners aboard, but them last chests we brung across—cap’n’s cabin gear, they is—they ain’t all got in ’em what they rightly should have!’

Elijah struggles beneath Wilkes’s meaty arm with about as much effect as a mouse beneath a cat’s paw. He has heard of Gentleman John, of course, with whose justice he is threatened here—who, after all, has not? He is reported to be one of the most successful pirates in the entire Caribbean. Elijah has yet to see the man, however, carried as he is—face down, ass foremost—to his meeting with the famous Captain.

‘Indeed?’ says a mellow voice. It is something of a surprise. Somehow, Elijah expected it to be darker and rougher—more dangerous—but then, the soubriquet denotes _gentleman_ , no matter how satirically. 

‘And this, I assume, is what you discovered in one of them? Set it down, by all means, and let us see what we have gained in place of the valuables we anticipated!’ 

The world swings dizzily around once more as Elijah is tipped upright onto the cabin floor. He staggers a little but manages to keep his feet, as Wilkes is dismissed with a wave of the hand. 

‘Stand straight, lad, and let’s look at you!’ Is that a smile lurking in the voice? If so, it isn’t obvious on the lips beneath the neat mustache. 

He is surprised once more—this time to see just how much more compact this man is in build than the hulking brute that hauled him from his hiding place and dumped him so unceremoniously here. Gentleman John is notorious in these waters for his raids on shipping of every nation. Always well-planned, never less than daring and, by all accounts, financially rewarding in the extreme. Clearly he more than makes up in cunning what he may lack in size.

He is younger, too, than Elijah expected—or at least he seems so. Though the sea fight is over and won, the Captain is still masked, with no inclination to reveal himself—as yet, at least. Unlike the frivolous masks worn in Charleston society to balls and parties, such as Elijah has owned himself, this is more extensive. It covers the upper half of his face in supple leather and all of his hair in fine black cloth. He wears no beard, only the mustache. From its color, Elijah guesses his hair to be a tawny brown, maybe lightened by sun and sea winds, he thinks. Irrelevant, of course, but he finds himself wanting to know nonetheless.

The crew looks to be a wild and lawless bunch of rogues, in the aftermath of battle, but rumor speaks well of their success under this politest of pirates, who seemingly refrains from indiscriminate slaughter. 

Once the clamor of the fight was ended, Elijah witnessed how quickly and efficiently matters were settled. Not the whole, of course, only what could be heard from the chest in which he lay concealed, in Captain Curtis’ quarters. The _Fair Aphrodite_ apparently has been captured with minimal casualties on either side, with neither ship too damaged to set sail once more. The officers and one or two passengers of obvious wealth are marked out for ransom, of course, and remain aboard in captivity. 

Survivors from below decks were offered a choice between confinement until port is reached, or actually augmenting the ranks aboard the pirate ship, since a skeleton crew must transfer to man the prize. He also heard the Captain’s orders to Geddes—clearly a trusted lieutenant—to sail her to some unnamed place where, Elijah assumes, a pirated ship may most advantageously be disposed of, and the exchange of hostages for gold most conveniently arranged. 

He lost track of all such details right after that, for the pirates had begun methodically to remove the ship’s portable goods. His sturdy hiding place tilted quite without warning, upending him on his head before it leveled out again. He didn’t need the rather muffled oaths from without to tell him the chest was being moved. His unwitting porters took little care with their burden, unless it was a care to collide with every obstacle they met. He was betrayed into stifled oaths of his own, particularly at the thump when he was set down. Whatever was under him in the chest, it didn’t make for comfortable lying, much less a soft landing. 

A sudden jolt, then, and the fusty darkness began rocking him to and fro in the most disconcerting manner. It made Elijah queasy enough that it was lucky, in one way at least, that he was dragged out into fresh air almost as soon as his swaying transfer to the pirate ship was complete.

‘Why were you hiding?’ the Captain—Gentleman John—sternly demands now. Not a trace remains of the imagined humor.

Elijah stares down at the well-scrubbed planks beneath his feet and answers not a word.

‘Are you a coward, is that it? Scared for your skin?’

‘No!’ Elijah’s head shoots up and color flames his cheeks. 

No-one can possibly know how much it took for him to honor the promise made to his father, and to the captain of the _Fair Aphrodite_ —who was actually the one to bundle him unceremoniously into that damned chest—that he would take no part should the worst happen and fighting occur. He might be adept enough with the fencing foils, he was told, but he would stand little chance if faced with a cutlass. 

But at least if he’d been allowed to find out, he might feel better about himself here.

He meets the eyes that shine behind the mask. Angry and shamed though he may be as he tells his truth, he can’t help but notice the shift in their color—sharp green giving way to a softer, undefined but quite fascinating color. 

‘Captain Curtis ordered me to hide in there—I swear it.’ He had also flung clothing at Elijah—a further disguise should his hiding place be discovered: a ragged shirt and pants, and the hissed instruction to shed his fine handmade boots and go barefoot.

‘And why is that? Were you, perhaps, the late lamented Captain’s boy?’ 

‘Late? What—he’s dead? Captain Curtis is _dead_?’ 

‘An unlucky shot.’

‘For him, if not for you,’ Elijah says bleakly. He’d liked old Curtis, for all his over-protectiveness.

‘I prefer captives to corpses, where possible. Curtis, now—the ransom on him might have shown a fair profit! You, however…’ 

His mouth twists in a wry grin, and Elijah goes cold inside, knowing Father will bankrupt himself if necessary to redeem his only son. It is his own fault, too. Despite all reports of increased pirate activity, he would insist on taking ship to Port Royale to visit with Hannah and her lord, following the birth of their latest child. 

‘…for you, I’d be lucky to raise the price of a flagon of decent ale!’ The threat dissipates on a jest. 

He _doesn’t_ know! And those best placed to enlighten him are all among the captives on the fast-vanishing _Aphrodite_! There is a chance here—the possibility, at least—of escape without ransom when this ship reaches port as it must do at last. Until then, however… 

‘You have not answered my question, boy!’

‘I—excuse me, what question? I’m sorry, I—’

‘You were, quite clearly, lamenting the late Captain Curtis. So, were you or were you not his boy?’

‘No—yes—I—’ Elijah isn’t entirely sure what the question implies.

‘His _cabin_ boy?’ The term is plain enough in itself—a personal servant—but a sudden glint to the green in the eyes behind that mask still leaves his meaning in some doubt.

‘Yes!’ says Elijah. _Head up and hang the consequences._

‘Then you shall be mine also.’

‘Y—yours?’

‘My cabin boy.’

‘Cabin boy,’ Elijah repeats.

‘Why not? If that is indeed your calling—despite those lilywhite hands!’

Elijah hastily stuffs his hands behind his back. ‘W—what must I do for you?’

‘The usual…’ There is a small but a noticeable pause. It makes Elijah wonder if he isn’t being deliberately baited. 

‘Obey orders, principally—I assume you can do that, whatever else? You shall keep the place clean and tidy—’ looking around, Elijah can’t see a thing out of place, but who is he to argue, here? ‘—bring meals and clear them away, look after my clothes. See to my needs generally…’ 

He waves a hand as if awaiting some reaction. When Elijah remains silent, he resumes with a question. ‘Can you read and write?’

‘Of c—’ Elijah snaps his mouth shut on an annoyed retort. Better— _safer_ , maybe—not to reveal too much. ‘Yes,’ he amends.

‘Yes…?’ Another flash of green and a tilt of the head says he is waiting for more—for the courtesy a Captain is owed.

‘Yes, _sir_ ,’ Elijah says, through clenched teeth.

‘Good. I may have scribe work for you, too. You are now, officially, cabin boy to the master of this ship. Me, in fact. How old are you?’

‘S—Eighteen.’ 

‘You would lie to your captain, boy?’ 

Sensing steel beneath the amused question, Elijah comes closer to truth. ‘Almost eighteen…’ a waiting silence, then, ‘…in three months time,’ he admits at last.

His Captain nods acceptance of that. ‘Do you have any gear?’

‘I wasn’t exactly given time to—’ A raised eyebrow cuts short what might have been a perilously impertinent retort. ‘No.’ The mobile brow is a reminder now. ‘No, sir.’ 

‘There’s bound to be some around that’ll fit, but _you_ don’t go looking.’ The order is almost indifferently spoken. ‘I’ll get someone to bring it. You go _nowhere_ on this ship unless you have business there, sent by me, and you go directly there and back again. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’ Elijah remembers this time. ‘Where,’ he swallows, ‘where shall I sleep, sir?’ 

‘Here, where else?’ Elijah looks around. The bed is a good deal wider than the berth he occupied aboard the _Aphrodite_ , but it is the only one. Does that mean…?

‘Here? W-with you, sir?’ He manages not to betray himself with a squeak, but it is close.

‘Your choice, boy. It’s either here or share the gun decks with the men…’ He grins—in some amusement, Elijah thinks sourly. ‘I’m sure they’d be pleased to find somewhere for you to…sleep.’ 

The pause is clearly deliberate this time, and Elijah shudders. He caught more than a few glances cast his way as Wilkes hauled him along deck to the Captain’s cabin. It wasn’t his face they were watching, either. Clamped as he was beneath that great muscle-bound arm, maybe wiggling his ass hadn’t been the smartest thing to do. The pirate ship has probably been at sea for some time if, as it seems, she was lying in wait for the _Fair Aphrodite_ , for a storm had severely delayed the latter’s progress to Port Royale. There will be no women on board, of course— _Bad luck!_ say sailors of any ilk. Elijah is in no doubt about exactly what the crew will therefore want of him.

A choice between one stranger or many—passed from man to man until he is raw? 

From what Elijah has seen or heard so far, this man seems to honor his soubriquet—in matters of piracy, at least. Whether this courtesy continues between sheets is not reported, but he can hope. 

Far better the Captain alone than the entire crew, reduced numbers or no. 

When the sun goes down, however, and he has restored the cabin to rights after serving his new master’s meal—which he has shared, in an oddly comfortable silence—a hammock and a light blanket are tossed toward him. The Captain leaves him then, with a brusque order to set it up and get within, while he sees to the ordering of his ship for the night. 

Elijah searches in the failing light to find cleats for the supporting ropes, and by the time the door reopens, is already swaying to the rhythm of the sea—cocooned in the clasp of heavy canvas, still wearing his shirt and ragged breeches.

From beneath almost-closed lids, Elijah watches the lighting of a lamp and the lengthy scritch of additions to what must be the ship’s log. Eventually the Captain rises and stretches his arms upward to touch the low ceiling, rolling neck and shoulders before stripping slowly out of his clothes. He does not wear so much as a nightshirt for sleeping, it seems, though his mask remains disconcertingly in place.

Elijah holds his breath, but the Captain only turns away and climbs naked into his berth. The lamplight casts too much shadow for Elijah to gain more than the impression of gilded muscle as the man spreads himself out, barely taking advantage, in the heat, of his own thin covering. In a moment, a huff of breath has doused the lamp and Elijah lies awake in the dark, wondering at the pang of disappointment amid his relief.

#

Elijah squirms happily, half-awake, half-sleeping still. His Sean, keeping him from a Fate-Worse-than-Death on the High Seas… What could be better? He pillows his face on that same warm, sleep-dampened muscle and lets himself drift back into dream.

#

The days pass tranquilly enough thereafter. Captain John gives him more to do than the ordering of his cabin and of his clothing. Many papers were captured with the _Fair Aphrodite_ , which Elijah must first sort into English, French or Spanish. Some are merely lading lists, cargo tallies and the like, to be entered into a great ledger, in Elijah’s barely tidy hand. 

Others are sealed packets which contain—or so he surmises, for these he must lay aside for his master’s perusal only—information vital to the planning of his raids; or perhaps to the most advantageous disposal of his ill-gotten gains. The Gentleman Captain, it seems, is fluent in more than one language, for he skims the contents equally quickly in any of the three.

The ship has met with two other vessels—by pre-arrangement, it seems. Each time the Captain requested, and Elijah has given, his solemn word to remain in the cabin at the task he’d been set. From the first ship he heard only rough voices speak with the Captain, in some kind of patois. A quick leap from skillet to flames that would have been, and in any case the meeting was little more than a hail and farewell, as papers were passed from one to the other.

From the second ship the captain and a handful of crew come aboard, and the voices Elijah hears then seem mostly American… Yes, he has given his word—but they are _Americans_. Surely someone aboard will—he is locked away here, though, probably with one of the men on guard outside the door. Should he not _try_ , at least, for escape, for rescue? 

Cautiously, he turns the bright brass handle whose polishing is one of his daily duties. It gives way freely, the door opening readily to his hand. When he peeks out, there is no-one lying in wait to bundle him ignominiously back into his temporary prison. The visitors are clearly to be seen, most sharing the crew’s grog abaft; the two captains—Elijah’s and a stranger—striding together along the quarterdeck, deep in conversation. 

There isn’t even a watch set on the cabin door. Elijah has given his word, and he is trusted. 

He sighs and returns to his scribing, only listening as the other ship casts off and the Captain gives the order to get underway once more. He does notice a new, sealed packet—laid openly on the table but not broached until the cabin boy is safely in his hammock and supposed to be sleeping. That night Elijah truly is asleep before the lamp is finally snuffed out.

And still he sleeps alone in his hammock. Perhaps Captain John can only want a boy when he is desperate enough? But, he never gives any indication he’s likely to _get_ that way. It’s Elijah who’s gotten desperate instead. 

Every night he pretends to be asleep when the Captain returns to his cabin. And night after night he watches him undress, without haste—and without awareness, Elijah hopes, of his avid audience. He watches more eagerly each time, from the slow unveiling of a gold-thatched chest through the regrettably shadowed shedding of pants that are surely tighter than they need be—little though they ever seem to impede the Captain—to the last gilding of warm lamplight along the arm reaching up to douse it.

Elijah might have been appalled by the prospect of being the plaything of some or all of a thirty man crew, but he is no stranger to the attractions of another male. Girls do not appeal to him in the least—a fact he has always kept secret from Father—but he does appreciate a trimly muscled body and this one…this one holds a fascination he finds himself less and less able to ignore. 

He hasn’t been aboard as much as a sennight before simple anticipation of what he is about to _almost_ witness has him setting hands to himself, writhing and jerking in his hammock, anxious always to be done before the Captain finally arrives and the innocently erotic and sadly obscured unveiling begins. 

As the nights go by, Elijah doesn’t know and frankly can’t care whether he is taking longer— _no, can’t_ possibly _be_ —or the Captain is making his rounds more quickly. Whatever the reason, his breathing—and the hammock’s wild swing—has seemingly less and less time to slow before the cause of his desperation is here again; sitting to write at the desk-cum-table, diligently recording all that may be needful before beginning the usual, unhurried and methodical, quite _tantalizing_ strip down to smooth bare skin. 

Elijah has to wait then until he’s—almost—sure the Captain is asleep before he dares deal with the renewed effect of what he has just seen. Never before an early riser, he rouses at four bells of the morning watch now—swiftly and silently cleaning himself, stowing his hammock in the locker with the spare clothing he was given, before rinsing all evidence from the cloth he’s learned to keep by him. He makes sure to wake the Captain promptly with coffee and shaving water, hot from the galley, at five bells. 

He has always assumed he will, sooner of later, catch at least a glimpse of his new master’s face whilst he performs this operation—which, given the edge on his straight razor, must prove quite tricky if a lively sea is running—but the Captain always dispatches him to bring breakfast right then. Always, by the time Elijah returns with his tray, the mask is neatly in place once more, hiding quite half of that newly-shaven face. He is irked and puzzled at once, and soon becomes convinced he’s being deliberately denied the pleasure of ever seeing him unmasked. Not that the Captain can know what a pleasure it would be for Elijah, but still. 

The mustache itself is an object of fascination. That neatly trimmed line of hair, lightly gilded by the sun, all too clearly emphasizes the shape and softness of the lips beneath. Elijah’s experience of kissing is largely theoretical—such tumbles as he’s enjoyed to date have not involved anything quite so intimate, and the politely expected kisses bestowed on girls have never made his heart race the way the mere _thought_ of kisses from his Captain does. 

Would it tickle? A fingertip, just stroked experimentally around his mouth, makes Elijah shiver. The possible brush of a mustache, following in the wake of those lips, arouses him so much that further contemplation has to be restricted to his solitary hammock-time. Nor is the fascination limited to thoughts of kissing. Elijah is convinced its effect would prove quite literally shattering in certain other places…

[](http://smg.photobucket.com/user/Tiriel/media/FramedDreams_zps241856c9.jpg.html)

Aside from the lure of the Captain’s many physical attributes, what he notices most is that he never troubles to ask Elijah’s name. He remains _Boy_ , or occasionally _Lad_. He is _the Boy_ if orders about him are given to any of the men. To them, of course, he’s _the Cap’n’s Boy_ , so named and claimed.

It rankles a little—hurts, even—at first. Not to be thought something he isn’t, however much he might like to be. But that he matters so little the Captain has never even bothered to ask his name. Elijah might actually give it—his first name, at least. To tell more would undoubtedly lead to a sudden change in his status, from cabin boy to valuable asset—a change he could not welcome, for more reasons than one… 

Later, he realizes it’s as if the Captain doesn’t _want_ to know who he is. Never rightly named; claimed and yet not _claimed._

#

Claimed. It isn’t exactly something Elijah will admit to anyone, ever—but there’s something about the way, when they make love, Sean growls _Mine!_ —deep in his chest and almost inaudible—that gives him shivers, way inside. Sean won’t ever admit to it, either—half-ashamed of his possessiveness, wholly grateful Elijah will let him pretend the word is never spoken. A secret shared and reveled in, no matter how separately…

#

Mysterious rendezvous with other vessels apart, he is not confined solely to the cabin. He’s free to spend his leisure hours on deck as long as he remains within his captor’s sight—the latter being no hardship since it keeps the Captain within his. 

As time passes, however, familiarity breeds the usual contempt, and curiosity gets the better of obedience to the warning he was given not to wander the ship. To his credit, Elijah knows it for a mistake before he’s gone more than a few dozen paces—though it’s too late, of course, by then. It was only a return trip from the galley, after all, bringing the customary tray of covered dishes for the Captain’s table. He simply decided on a slight detour—nothing fancy, just a different route to the same end.

A definite mistake: the prick of a knife point through the shirt at his ribs is proof enough of that. A hand snakes round to cover his mouth and foul breath blows hot against one ear as he’s dragged back into deep shadow. Elijah stills immediately but his grip on the Captain’s tray tightens. Hot food won’t be much of a weapon, but if need be he’ll make all the use of it he can.

‘I’d not move, if I was you, nor call out neither,’ a hoarse whisper advises. ‘Remember me? Benson. Second mate aboard the _Aphrodite.’_

Elijah doesn’t remember, why would he? He hadn’t even tried to distinguish any one man of the crew from another, for life aboard then was spent in company with Captain Curtis, his officers and the other passengers, who were all rather old and mostly quite boring; they were also acquainted with his father, which meant his best behavior was obligatory. Above decks is a quite different world from below, and one brawny deckhand looks much like another when rushing about to fulfill his duties. He nods, however, and waits.

‘I remembers _you_ , alright. Oh yes—pretty boy like you don’t go unnoticed. And you’ll be glad of a friendly face by now, I daresay, or maybe something a bit more than friendly, eh?’ The hand leaves Elijah’s face and slides down to cup his ass and knead suggestively. The heft of a very solid cock shoves hard against him, but Elijah has never been less aroused.

This is what the Captain has been keeping him from. Elijah stood beside him on deck that day, staring red-faced at the well-scrubbed planks beneath his feet, when it was made very clear to every man jack of the crew that nobody— _nobody_ —lays a hand on Elijah unless and until _he_ has finished with him. Not that he has even started, as yet, but…

Elijah listens in taut silence. 

‘The Cap’n may like what he’s gotten, here,’ Benson thrusts his cock meaningfully against Elijah’s ass, ‘but it seems to me he don’t know _who_ he’s gotten. He don’t know just who your pa is, nor how much he’d likely give to get you back again, all in one piece. But _I_ knows, and I reckon if I was to bring you safe ’ome, a certain very rich merchant would be suitably grateful.’

It’s true enough, but Elijah would infinitely prefer to confess his identity and be openly ransomed than collude with scum like this. Again, he waits.

‘But, on the other ’and, there’s a few of us from the old _Aphra_ as signed on with this pirate lot, and if you was to throw in with us, there’s no saying but what—’ 

Boots clumping down the companionway ladder shut Benson up for a moment. He drags Elijah closer into his hold and it is more his fault than Elijah’s when the dishes rattle against each other on their tray. Elijah feels the hot trickle of blood nonetheless, as the knife point bites into chilled skin. He tightens his grasp to still the sound, and the wearer of the boots continues aft toward the galley, seemingly oblivious.

Pressure on the blade is withdrawn but Elijah is well aware of its position, laid flat against him; a cold presence even through the fabric of his shirt.

‘Like I was saying, I reckon there’s enough of _us_ …that we only needs two or three of _theirs_ …to take this ship like they took ours,’ Benson goes on, every word a heated whisper at Elijah’s ear. The hand making free with Elijah’s ass slides around to cup his cock instead—a rhythmic squeeze occupying each pause in Benson’s fantasy, as if it might increase his power of persuasion. 

‘We could do it, too…oh yes, my lad…if you was to…put the Cap’n out the way for us…you being the only one…as gets close enough!’ A few more, swift-jabbing thrusts at Elijah’s back indicate exactly how close he thinks the Captain will need to be. ‘The slip of a knife…quick and quiet atween his ribs…is all it’d take…just as nice and easy as kiss-my-’and.’

Completely furious to be thought capable of such treachery—to say nothing of outright murder—Elijah stamps his heel down hard on the man’s instep, whisks sideways out of the pain-slackened grasp and stands with the tray between them.

‘Do you have any idea how pathetically stupid you are?’ he asks, not bothering to lower his voice. ‘Do you _really_ think you could take on this ship’s company? They know their ship from top mast to bilges—more, they know each other. And I’d back their loyalty to the Captain against anything _you_ have to offer! I don’t care how many of you there are, you don’t have a hope in Hades of taking his ship, and I would not aid you if it meant I could go home tomorrow! Get back where you belong and forget the whole idea!’ 

Elijah turns his back then and walks steadily away, the Captain’s dinner still safe in his hands.

‘You wait, you little prick-tease—I’ll have you yet…’ Benson’s curses mumble on behind him. 

Before quite out of earshot, Elijah calls back, ‘And Benson? I’d as soon cut off my cock as take a tumble with you!’

His hands are shaking only a little as he sets his burden on the table and tugs shirt from ragged pants to check the damage. It is no more than a scratch, of course, scarcely bleeding at all now, and he’s far more angry than hurt. He lays the meal out on the table as usual—surprised and even a little proud that he and it have both survived the encounter. 

He sits down to wait, frowning when he realizes he just refused a more or less legitimate attempt at escape by a captured crew. He did it in defense of a pirate, no less, and one who must have blood on his hands despite any polite soubriquet. 

He might have agreed to the venture—though never to such a despicable role for himself—if he could believe freedom and honest dealing would result. He can’t. It’s not simply that he suspects he would quickly find himself Benson’s favorite hostage, with rape and ransom both figuring largely in his future. He would not wager a single groat on the ship’s store of plundered goods ever being returned to their rightful owners, nor that she would ever revert to an honest trading vessel once more. 

Reasons enough for his refusal—and if he suspects himself of any other, it is easily ignored. 

Somehow, anger allied to confusion makes him hungry, and maybe that’s why his master seems a long time in coming to his dinner. Elijah wonders if Benson and his threats have been overheard, and whether he too will be questioned—maybe even accused of having a part in the conspiracy, if or when all is known. 

However, the Captain speaks no word of it when he enters the cabin, only voicing his hope that the food beneath the covers may taste as appetizing as its smell. He serves himself, then nods to Elijah to take his share. 

They eat in silence until a sudden cry cuts through the air, somewhere forrard of the main mast. It is followed by a splash as something heavy goes over the side. The Captain goes on eating with neither sound nor glance to indicate that he has noticed.

Elijah has a fair idea of what must have occurred. The conversation was indeed overheard and reported. Benson’s own words convicted him of his intent, both to mutiny and to rape. The latter would signify little to the Captain, of course, beyond an order disobeyed, but even the whisper of mutiny must be stopped at source lest the contagion spread. 

Perhaps not all the ship’s crew would balk at mutiny, given the promise of a greater share of the booty. However, it appears enough of the men are loyal for the would-be traitor to be made known without delay, and the beginnings of conspiracy to be crushed just as swiftly. Benson is already well on his way to a permanent berth in Davy Jones’ locker. Such summary justice can probably be relied on to keep other would-be mutineers on the wiser course, but Elijah has no doubt a strict watch will henceforth be kept on the remaining _Aphrodite_ men—and on him too, in all likelihood.

_A good riddance!_ he tells himself, but unexpectedly, he begins to shake again. He is suddenly cold and his stomach rebels. Without a word—the smallest hesitation a mistake in itself—he bolts for the door and out across the deck to hang over the ship’s rail. Even in his haste, he has the sense to head to leeward, where he proceeds to heave up every morsel he has eaten that entire day.

He starts as a hand settles on his back. He isn’t sure if he imagines a gentle slide down to the thin trail of blood staining his shirt, dried already against his skin. 

‘Here, lad, get some of this down you.’

Elijah stands upright and takes a blind hold of the mug being thrust at him. He is surprised to taste not grog or even brandy, but fresh water. He rinses his mouth a couple times, spitting the vile taste out over the side, then drains the rest. 

‘Thank you,’ he says, but his Captain has gone already and Elijah is left there feeling foolish before an audience of more crew members than are surely necessary. Head high, mug clutched in both hands, he returns to the cabin in time to see the Captain pile dishes back on the tray to be taken up by a sailor whose name he thinks is Kent. As the man passes him in the doorway Elijah sets the mug on top of the plates.

‘Thank you, sir,’ he says again. 

‘At least you didn’t spew up your guts in here!’ The Captain waves the subject away with a careless hand as he reaches into the chart locker. He spreads one on the table. Without getting so close he might be thought prying, Elijah can see it is a map of the Carolina coastline.

His spirits lift and he loses a little of the guilt he felt at Benson’s end. He has been allowed ashore once already, when they put in for fresh water and meat, but the tiny island offered no means of further escape. Perhaps when they finally come into a proper port, on American soil, he might find some means to make his way home to Charleston. 

But when finally he sways to sleep in his hammock that night, the memory of that half-imagined touch is strong, and the images that flow so temptingly through his dreams contain nothing of freedom.

#

Safe. Defended, cared for but not over-protected—Elijah knows the feeling well. His cabin boy recognizes a good dream berth when he has found one—just his bad luck it doesn’t also involve the Captain’s generous bed. Not yet, at least… 

#

In the end, no plan of escape is needed. The ship put into a port Elijah doesn’t recognize, to jettison the last of the _Aphrodite_ men and collect Geddes and the rest of the original crew. Some days later—under the name _Bonaventure_ and with sails of a sober color replacing the gaudy stripes—she anchors in the Cooper River at Charlestown like any honest merchant vessel. Her boats ferry to and from the harbor itself, replenishing stores just as every ship must do before a lengthy voyage. Elijah has heard rumors among the crew of a return to the Indies.

He stares out across the water to the town he knows well—remembering the last time he saw it shipside, the day his fateful voyage to Port Royale first began. Can he swim so far, given a tidal current? Would he even make it into the river before being seen and brought back? Elijah sighs and goes on staring. Daylight has begun to fade, lights beginning to twinkle amid the streets, when the Captain summons him to the cabin and drops a bundle at his feet.

‘Put these on,’ he orders, ‘and follow me.’

The good cloth coat fits him well, incongruous though it must be over his cabin-boy rags. But Elijah has grown used to going barefoot, and the boots feel wrong, even as he recognizes them as his own—the very ones Captain Curtis ordered him to discard. Stamping into them at last he scrambles for the door, fearing to be left behind if this is, as it seems, a trip ashore.

The Captain is indeed in his gig already, coxswain and oarsmen all waiting for Elijah. One of the crew stifles a snigger as he almost falls from the ladder in his haste, but he doesn’t care. His chance is surely coming, but…

The quayside is dark, filthy and wonderfully solid beneath his feet, though he staggers until he gets what the Captain says with a laugh are his landlegs back. The gig casts off again but the two of them make toward the lights and the noise of many taverns. 

The wharf and its adjacent streets are busy with knots of rowdy seamen of all colors and kinds. In coats or in rags, with a crutch or an eye patch or a hook for a hand, every one of them seems to Elijah far more fearsome to look upon than any man aboard the _Bonaventure._

While he engages in these observations, the Captain has somehow acquired a shabby carriage. It is drawn by a dispirited horse and driven by a small man concealed within a very large coat. Elijah might be of a mind to escape, but the shelter of even so dilapidated a vehicle seems preferable to the hazards to be found among such obvious rogues, to say nothing of alleys and by-ways that stink of decayed refuse—and worse—overlaid with the pervasive reek of ale and cheap spirits. 

The Captain ignores both stench and rogues alike, though Elijah notices how close his hand remains to his sword hilt until they reach a better part of town. The carriage halts at last at the corner of a most respectable street, if not one Elijah recognizes. It is quite empty, the hour being close on midnight. When they alight, Elijah follows toward the one doorway still brightly lit, denoting some late activity within. 

‘This is the house of Mister Arnold Cobner, a business associate of your father,’ says the Captain. ‘He will see you safe home.’

‘You—you know who I am, then?’ Elijah looks up quickly, stuttering in his surprise.

‘From the start,’ he confirms.

‘But—but you never—you didn’t use my name. You never called me anything but Boy!’ It rankles even more now Elijah knows the truth.

‘Not so,’ the Captain disagrees, his mouth twisting into the rare grin Elijah lo—likes so much. ‘There were times I called you Lad!’

Elijah has to smile at that, but quickly sobers. 

‘I have much to thank you for, then, and I do—but what about ransom? A reward, rather, for returning me unharmed? I owe you that much, at least!’

Even by torchlight and behind the enigmatic mask, the eyes are stormier than ever Elijah has seen them. Almost emptied of light and color now, they hold only the ominous gray-green of the sea before a bad blow. 

‘Just go,’ he says. ‘Go home, Elijah.’ His name, at long last—but the Captain turned away as he said it.

As Elijah watches, he walks steadily back to the waiting carriage. The rattle of its iron-rimmed wheels echoes loud in the quiet of night, but all too soon it dies to nothing. He has truly gone.

Elijah feels the bitter stab of loss—irrational, perhaps, but sharp enough for all that. With a sigh that is also a half-stifled sob, he faces the door and raises its ornate knocker.

#

Enigmatic, chivalrous Sean, whose sense of honor kept them apart until he could leave least hurt behind. But now at last, Elijah can truly _enjoy_ a fantasy separation, because their reunion need never again be in doubt.

#

‘No, not at all… signed on as a cabin boy… ship docked at last… Mister Cobner’s assistance… yes, good to be home… nothing so heroic, I assure you…’

Elijah has lost count, over the past week, of the number of people to whom he has reluctantly related a very much abridged (even setting aside the lies he’d had to tell) account of his—what? 

His ordeal, the scandalized ladies are calling it; his adventure, say their menfolk, with an undertone of _lucky dog_ from the young blades with whom he was most at home just a few short months ago. The evening’s ball is held in his honor, and the cream of Charleston society is present in force to see the lost lamb returned. 

Too many of them, truth to tell. He’s more content these days, with just one person at a time. 

It is all too much—the lights and the noise and the brightly colored gowns of the ladies present; braid and lacings sharp in gold or silver, dusky velvets and the gleam of satin. His eyes ache from the glitter of so many jewels beneath so many clustered chandeliers. 

He’s gotten too used to the fickle, ever-changing seas beneath wide and empty skies by day; to evening light, soft from a single lamp, warming the page as a firm hand noted details of a ship’s passage; and more, to the loving play of light and shadow over sun-browned skin, tempting him even now in his dreams.

But Father wants this grand affair—one part proof to their world of his heir’s continued existence, one part celebration of his safe return, the third a late acknowledgement of his birthday, just past. All sound reasons to display a genial face, and yet… 

It is easier with friends like Sophia—Hannah’s friend first, of course, but the two girls have always been patient with the trailing younger brother, and Sophia has not greatly changed, despite being a wife with children of her own. The two sit companionably together on the balcony encircling the ballroom, sharing the latest tidings of Hannah.

Suddenly a stir by the doors below claims Sophia’s attention. ‘Oh, now, look!’ she cries. ‘Here is Astin of Ridgemount—your ball is honored by his presence!’ 

When Elijah’s frown betrays his ignorance of this fashionably tardy guest, she adds, ‘Sean Astin—not only one of our most successful and wealthiest men of affairs, but also one of our oldest families. He and Simeon practically grew up together, so we dine whenever he is in town. I doubt you would know him at all, for he has small taste for society, as a rule, and none at all for the kind of company you kept before your disappearance! Too, his business ventures take him abroad more often than not, and you have never been one to interest yourself in such _stuffy_ things!’

Sophia laughs as Elijah leans out over the marble balustrade, hoping to catch a glimpse of this paragon of industry, but the newcomer is quickly swallowed by a press too thick to make out any one man. He peers downward, almost catching the hint of a familiar figure, soon lost to view—but since his return he has too often turned hastily, thinking to discover a vestige of his Captain in one man or another, and always he is disappointed.

‘Ought I not to go down,’ he asks, ‘to meet so important a guest?’

‘Your Papa will probably send for you if he thinks it necessary,’ says Sophia, accepting wine for both of them from a passing servant. Elijah resumes his seat and they return to their discussion of whether Charles might have been a rather more practical name than Charlemagne for the romantically-inclined Hannah’s latest born son.

Soon afterward, however, a voice from behind him—and Sophia’s animation devolving to her company smile—warn Elijah that Father is bringing the celebrated Astin of Ridgemount to meet him, and the introduction is about to be made.

‘Sophia, my dear, I think need not introduce our guest to you? No, of course—I believe he and the Colonel were childhood friends, were they not? But Elijah, my son, there is one here whom you must know.’ A firm grasp of his shoulder bids Elijah rise at once and face the guest. The tone clearly indicates a cordial greeting here may be of assistance in Father’s own affairs. 

He stands and turns—and barely averts a tell-tale fall of his jaw.

‘Mister Astin, may I present my son, Elijah, our wanderer returned! Elijah, make your bow to Mister Sean Astin of the Ridgemount estate, a capital man of business throughout the entire south.’

The face is so familiar…and yet not. Even the bewitching mouth looks different, pale skin above only hinting at the absence of mustache. Elegant dress clothes, where Elijah is used to loose shirts—or even just a jerkin—over tight leather pants. But the figure, the bearing, and the eyes…

A single calming breath to still the sudden hammering of his heart, and Elijah sweeps his most extravagant bow. ‘I am most happy to know you at last, sir,’ he says, half punctilious politeness, half gibe.

‘And I to see you restored thus safely to your home!’ The bow he receives in return is a highly polished social acknowledgement, but the eyes twinkle, almost daring him to reveal his awareness of a notorious pirate, at large within the heart of Charleston society. ‘One does not generally look to see such health and vigor in one who has undergone such…’ the pause is almost infinitesimal, but Elijah recognizes it for the sly tease it is, ‘…an ordeal.’

‘Ah, but I had the good fortune to be captured by a privateer of some refinement—you may have heard of Gentleman John?’

‘The name is a little familiar.’ The words are blandly spoken, their content outrageous. ‘I would hear more from you of this well-mannered miscreant. But, a ball is scarcely a suitable venue for such a discussion—perhaps you would do me the honor of riding out with me? Ridgemount is held to show to its finest from horse-back—’

#

Even inside a half-waking dream, Elijah frowns. That isn’t right. He could barely make a fat hobbit pony go where he wanted it to, much less some suitably high-bred steed; and Sean is allergic to horsehair. Neither of those facts is in the least propitious for what he has in mind once he gets Sean alone out there, wherever _there_ turns out to be. Effortlessly, he re-directs the scene.

# 

‘…a ball is scarcely a suitable venue for such a discussion—perhaps you would do me the honor of driving out to visit? Ridgemount is held to be a particularly beautiful estate, though I admit it owes none of its attractions to my personal intervention. The laurels are owed to my forebears alone!’

Elijah accepts the invitation with another gracious bow, keeping a tight rein on his emotions. He wants to grin like an idiot; he wants to get his Captain the hell out of there before he can be recognized; he wants…he wants Mister Sean Astin. It seems Sean Astin knows it, too, and wants him in return, else why take the enormous risk that Elijah might betray him, here and now? 

But—a sudden cold chill overlays the desire—this man is also a pirate, and quite probably a murderer too, even if his was not the shot that killed Captain Curtis. Elijah’s body is undeniably attracted, but can his mind accept such a man?

Almost at once the lights and bustle of the ballroom shimmer out of existence, and Elijah is instead exiting a stylish carriage to enter the stark white portico of a most impressive mansion. The drawing room where Sean awaits him is elegantly furnished, but it lacks the warmth and color Elijah associates with his Captain.

‘Welcome to Ridgemount,’ says he, advancing to offer a glass of wine with his bow. 

Elijah accepts it, raising his brows at the taste. ‘An excellent vintage,’ he comments, knowing nothing of such things in truth, only that he likes it and he wants to impress, here. ‘A most palatable fruit of the vine—and also of piracy?’ he asks slyly.

‘Honestly bought, I assure you!’ Sean says with only the slightest of smiles.

‘Such a relief—though I suppose an illicit provenance might—’ he breaks off beneath Sean’s intent gaze. ‘What?’

‘May I not look?’

Elijah is abruptly warm, all over. ‘If—if you so wish,’ he says, as unnerved by the keen glance here as he was when it pierced him from behind a mask, that very first day. 

‘You certainly looked your fill, aboard the _Bonaventure_! Did you think me blind or merely stupid?’ Ignoring a hasty attempt at denial, he takes the glass from Elijah’s suddenly nerveless hand and sets it aside.

‘Tell me,’ says he, ‘are you still of the same…’ the pause and knowing look stir vivid memories of desperate activity in a wildly swaying hammock at night, and the color to Elijah’s face right now, ‘the same _mind_ as you were aboard ship?’ 

‘Oh yes! But—but, why now? You could have had me any time, and you clearly knew it, so why now?’

‘Why now?’ Sean pulls him close, one arm around Elijah’s waist, his other hand stroking gently at the warmth that stains his cheek. ‘What I had of you then might have been no more than an act of self-preservation. It was what you expected, was it not—a yielding to the all-powerful pirate captain? Your body in exchange for your life?’

‘But, you didn’t. You never touched me, even though you knew how much I wanted you to!’

He might have pouted but his Captain _is_ touching him here, mouth painting his words along Elijah’s neck, even as fingers work deftly at the buttons of coat and shirt, seeking the warmth of skin beneath. 

‘Oh, I wanted you, Elijah—but I wanted _you_ , not your submission. And definitely not a young man who might at best only seek relief for desires he would prefer to spend elsewhere. You tried my control—and my right hand—finely! The crew quickly learned never to disturb my need for solitude just before I retired for the night!’ 

‘You wanted me? But, you didn’t even _know_ me!’ Elijah gasps— _all_ submission now as Sean’s fingers bare a nipple blatantly eager for the lips that kiss their way toward it, still whispering words of desire long-suppressed.

‘I had seen you often enough, however, racketing about the town in company with other young men having money to waste and too little to occupy them. I hoped you were different—and then, there you were, a passenger on the _Fair Aphrodite!’_

‘You didn’t—did you know I would be on board?’ Words are an effort beneath such delicious suckling, but Elijah needs to know.

Breath blown out in a heavy sigh is tease in itself here, but Sean ceases his expert caresses and pulls back—to Elijah’s intense disappointment.

‘I knew, though in truth the papers Curtis was carrying were the more cogent reason to lie in wait for her! Our independence as a nation will never be gained when such traitors as he sell information to our enemies. Under the guise of piracy, much that is good and necessary can be achieved—but I have to admit it is also extremely profitable! Now, is there more you must know at this moment, or may I proceed with my seduction?’

That is when Elijah realizes the elegant drawing room has given place to a wide and comfortable, curtained bed. He is lying in the center, completely naked and fully aroused, with his pirate Captain—tight breeches, jerkin, mask and all—hovering over him, just as Elijah has always hoped he would. 

‘I have you in my power at last, Boy!’ he says, and swoops downward with a gloating laugh.

At any other time or place Elijah too might laugh at the old pirate cliché, but he can only moan here. Sean’s mouth closes tight around his cock—hot and wet, and fiercely dragging him toward the climax he has waited for through this entire fantasy. It is as explosively wonderful as ever he could have dreamed.

#

When he opens his eyes at last, here is Sean beside him, sleep-warm and tousled, equally naked in their own bed. His eyes are lust-heavy as he licks the last traces of Elijah from his lips. With one hand he casts aside a familiar tube. The other is slick already, fingers sliding easily into Elijah’s languid body. 

‘And now, my little cabin-boy,’ says Sean, ‘I shall prove to you just why a bed is so much more practical than a hammock for making love!’

[](http://www.statcounter.com/)


End file.
